


Timeshare

by panfriedeggs



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:15:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panfriedeggs/pseuds/panfriedeggs
Summary: In between stalking the nightmares of his statement givers, Jon spoke to Gerry.In which Jon and Gerry keep each other company after the Unknowing.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 24
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

In between stalking the nightmares of his statement givers, Jon spoke to Gerry.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. In front of them, seven strangers pretending to be people cut reverently into Lionel Elliott’s screaming body in the garishly lit dissection room. “I thought you would be free. I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop that,” Gerry interrupted. “It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s _my_ fault for telling you to burn my page. Or it’s Gertrude’s fault for putting me in the book. Or it’s my fault _again_ for not getting Gertrude to tell me exactly how she destroyed my mother’s page.”

Jon tore his eyes away from Lionel’s heart, now sliced free and erratically squirting blood. Gerry had a scowl on his face and his arms stubbornly crossed. He didn’t look how Jon remembered from the skin book. His hair was neatly dyed and he had more piercings in his ears and nose. His skin was less sallow, the bags under his eyes less pronounced, and most interestingly, he was maybe a few years younger. That last detail was what had convinced Jon that Gerry wasn’t a figment of his imagination. His mind was certainly capable of conjuring this image of Gerry, but he just couldn’t see why it would bother.

Jon was well aware that distrust of one’s own mind was a sign of insanity. He tried not to think about it.

“’Sides, it’s better now,” Gerry continued. “Not that I’m glad you’re in a coma, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to.” He eyed the medical students in distaste as one of them removed Lionel’s liver. “Scenery could use some work, though.”

“Yes, well, I’m trying to be… _fair,”_ said Jon, grimacing. Since Gerry arrived, Jon could walk into each of his victim’s nightmares at will. There were less grisly scenes he could haunt, but he didn’t want to overly traumatize anybody.

Gerry rolled his eyes at him, but he looked almost fond. “You would, wouldn’t you. I’ve never met an avatar so worried about doing no harm.”

“Yes, well…” Jon didn’t know how to continue. _I didn’t ask for this_ and _I don’t like hurting them_ warred with _I bask in their terror._

Gerry read the conflict on his face. “You’ve got to stop feeling so guilty.”

Jon barked out a laugh. “Gerry, I’m a _monster.”_

“There are worse things to be, and you know it,” he replied, shrugging. “My mum was never an avatar, and she did way worse than you. For that matter, so did Gertrude. You were a bit of a wanker, sure, but you at least _try_ not to hurt anybody.”

“That seems like an awfully low standard.”

Gerry looked at him seriously. “For humans? Yeah. But not for you.”

* * *

Jon wasn’t really sure when and how Gerry showed up. Gerry hadn’t _ended_ like they’d hoped when Jon burned his page. He was free of the book, certainly, but the pain… now it was compounded by watching the living, being unable to forget for even a _second_ what he was missing. Jon Knew without asking that he felt every aching moment of it.

Gerry had wandered, dead but not-dead, intangible and invisible, until he found Jon, who was also dead but not-dead. There was only a day between burning Gerry’s page and Jon not-dying, but to hear Gerry tell it, he’d been a “sad excuse for a revenant” for ages before he found Jon.

Jon really hoped he hadn’t been unconscious _that_ long, but he couldn’t tell either. In his mind, there was the era Before Gerry, and the era After Gerry, and both were equally significant. Time was _impossible_ in a coma. 

It was because of Gerry he knew he was in a coma at all. Unlike Jon who spied on his victims, the nature of Gerry’s torment meant he spied—however inexactly—on the living world. So Jon knew about his technically dead body lying in a private hospital room funded by the Magnus Institute. He knew that Martin came to visit him, and sometimes Georgie and Basira, but mostly Martin. And he knew that Basira wanted to cremate him and be done with it, but some directive Elias had left prevented it. Gerry hadn’t seen Tim, Daisy or Melanie, but he also hadn’t sought them out, so Jon kept hoping they were just elsewhere and not dead.

“I don’t know why you care so much,” Gerry said once, trying to get comfortable with his back against a gravestone. Through the thick, rolling fog, they could hear Naomi Herne begging and crying for help. “It’s not like they were even nice to you.”

Jon made a face and pointedly looked away from where Naomi’s fingers were clawing pointlessly at the edge of an open grave. “I wasn’t exactly nice to them either. And well, so much of… _this_ was my fault—”

“Uh no, pretty sure it wasn’t,” said Gerry flatly, trying not to whack his head against the cross’ sharp, stone edges.

Jon sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I asked Tim to join the Archives,” he said, restarting the argument. “He would have never been involved if not for me.”

“Pretty sure that guy was already part of the Institute, wasn’t he?” Gerry asked rhetorically. “It’s not like you held a gun to his head and made him take a job with better pay. He joined for his own reasons, and those reasons had more to do with his brother than with you.”

“Melanie—”

“Got into this mess entirely on her own when she tangled with the Slaughter. It’s just safer to blame _you_ than Elias.” Gerry gave up and shuffled away from the gravestone, counting on his fingers. “Basira was Daisy’s fault. Daisy was her own fault—she belonged to the Hunt long before she met you. And Martin was hired before you got the position.” Gerry raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “How is any of this on you?”

“It’s not, it’s not that _simple._ You don’t know—there were things I could have done, I _should_ have done—”

“I’m in your _head,_ Jon.” Gerry interrupted in a long-suffering tone. “I’m kind of impressed you’re managing to lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me.”

“I was supposed to be _in charge,”_ Jon snapped, “but I didn’t exactly make things easier.”

“No, you didn’t,” Gerry agreed. “At first you didn’t know enough do anything. _Then_ you were paranoid that one of your coworkers murdered your predecessor—and, oh wait, one of them _did._ And after _that,_ you were jerked all over the world by Elias.” Gerry paused, considering. “He really should be an avatar of the Web, not the Eye. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t cut his strings, and none of the others managed it, either.”

Jon exhaled loudly and let his shoulders slump. “No, perhaps you’re right.” A part of him felt he was giving up too easily, but his arguments had never swayed Gerry. Stubborn bastard.

Then he had a thought and smiled. “Martin might have done it, though. Manipulated Elias, I mean.”

Gerry hadn’t been able to find out if Martin’s little rebellion had worked, but at the very least, Martin was still alive, so it couldn’t have been a complete disaster. “Maybe Martin,” Gerry agreed.

Neither of them said anything more for awhile, shivering minutely in the gloom. Then Gerry took a deep breath. “I know you don’t like to hear this, but Sasha wasn’t your fault either, Jon,” he said gently. “With what you knew at the time, you couldn’t have saved her. I’m sorry.”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to cry. “Why do you keep telling me this, Gerry?”

“I’m hoping if I say it enough, you’ll believe me.” Gerry gave a lopsided, uncertain grin. “It’s like I said, I’m in your head. I’m trying to make it a more comfortable place to be.”

Jon considered him carefully. Gerry had been raised by _Mary Keay_ in the shadows of the Entities and had never had a real friend. But as soon as he was old enough to judge for himself, he had tried to do good. There were dozens of statements in the Archives attesting to just that, and probably dozens more that hadn’t made it to the Institute. _He_ was good _,_ and Jon thought he was maybe the most impressive person he had ever met.

“Thank you, Gerry,” said Jon, abruptly grateful. “You’re… a good person. I’m really glad you’re here.”

Gerry’s smile widened, becoming more genuine. “What are friends for?”

* * *

Not-life continued. John hadn’t taken that many live statements, so they cycled systematically through the same parade of nightmares. Gerry’s favorite was Tessa Winter’s. Tessa always glared hatefully at Jon, but at least her flat had a nice couch.

Because there wasn’t much else to do, they talked. Jon told Gerry about growing up with his grandmother and being a precocious little shit. He told him about his first Leitner and shared stories of college misadventures and other meaningless and not so meaningless bits of his life.

In return, Gerry told him about some of the more bizarre things he’d seen, his travels with Gertrude and his favorite band. He also talked about his mother. Not a lot, but enough to convince Jon that nature trumped nurture.

Gerry also described scenes from the living world sometimes, just to imagine new scenery, but Jon could tell it hurt him, _took_ something out of him.

It was getting unbearable, being trapped between life and death. Jon felt it like an itch he couldn’t scratch, a gnawing fear that never left, but it was worse for Gerry. Jon could see strain etching itself across Gerry’s face as he started to look more and more like his corpse. But he didn’t know what to do. The End wouldn’t come.

And then one moment, with no warning, Oliver Banks came and gave his statement.

It seemed so simple when Oliver laid it out like that. Did he want to die? No, Jon was terrified of dying, and given the choice between dying human and living as a monster, it hardly needed deciding at all. It was horrendously selfish though, and Jon resented the End for forcing him to confront that part of himself.

But what about Gerry? If Jon woke up, would he just continue drifting alone until he went mad? Gerry was unequivocally one of his, and Jon would no more lose him than he would Martin.

There had to be a way… Perhaps if a certain patron God would drop the answer in his brain…

Jon brought it up the next time they were in Tessa’s living room. Out of habit, they both ignored Tessa and the cracked pieces of keyboard that made blood drool from her mouth. Gerry had laid down on her couch and was trying to sleep. Neither of them needed sleep, of course, but Gerry said he found it reassuring to pretend.

“Gerry... may I Look?” asked Jon hesitantly.

Gerry cracked open an eyelid. “What's this about, then? I know I'm dead, but I’d like to have _some_ secrets.”

Jon had kept Oliver’s visit apart from Gerry. He didn't want to bring it up before he had a plan for both of them. "Just, please Gerry. I promise it’s important.”

Gerry rolled onto his side to stare him in the face. Whatever he saw must have worried him. “Jon… What’s this about?” he asked more seriously.

“I promise I’ll tell you after,” Jon said. “Just, please.”

Gerry took his time deciding, clearly conflicted. Eventually, he sighed. “I’m in _your_ head, so I guess fair’s fair. Go ahead.” He resolutely shut his eyes.

Jon slumped in relief. “Thank you,” he said fervently, “thank you for trusting me.” And then he Looked.

It _hurt_.

From far away, he felt himself screaming.

Gerry might have given him permission, but his subconscious fought the intrusion with a lifetime of experience thwarting and maneuvering around the Entities. It might not have worked at all, except that Gerry had parked himself in Jon's mind, giving him the advantage.

_Stop_ , Jon screamed to the Watcher, _I don't want his fears, that’s not what I need. Stop!_

An eon later, he lay flat on his back somewhere.

Gerry was leaning over his body, alarmed. “Jon, what the hell was that?” he demanded.

Gerry looked... bad. Worse than Jon had ever seen him. The skin on his face looked like it would slough off with a hard shake. From his back, red-brown gore pooled slowly on the false grey of Jon's mindscape from a large rectangle empty of skin. Belatedly, Jon realized that this was how Gerry looked without Jon’s power to draw from.

Jon sat up abruptly, nearly bashing Gerry in the head. He turned to Gerry and gripped him tight by the arms, ignoring the bruises he left in his too soft skin. “Gerry—we can get out of here. I know how!”

“Jon, what are you talking about _._ What did you do?”

“Oliver Banks—”

“The Death guy?”

“Yes, him! He gave me a statement. I know how to wake up!” Gerry looked stunned, so Jon kept rambling, the words tripping out. “He said I’d trapped myself—that I wasn’t human enough to die, but too human to live—so, so I have to _choose_. But that’s not the point—Gerry, do you want to come with me?” Jon asked breathlessly.

“Wait, what? How would that even work?”

“I think—I _know_ I can tether you to the physical world.”

“To _what?_ Jon, my body’s been decomposing for years!”

“No, I wouldn’t—”

“Mate, I don’t want to be a zombie!”

“You wouldn’t be a zombie! I would tether you to _my_ body!” shouted Jon.

Gerry rocked back on his heels. “So where would you be?”

“Well, I mean, we’d have to share,” said Jon, suddenly awkward.

“You want to _timeshare_ your body?” Gerry asked incredulously.

Jon took a shaky breath. “We’re already sharing headspace. How bad could it be?”

Gerry stared at him, wide-eyed.

“And it wouldn’t be forever,” Jon continued. “I mean, probably, we could find something else for you. The Stranger, or the Flesh—they can create bodies, it’s not impossible.”

“That’s a risk,” Gerry said slowly. “The Entities don’t give favors easily. You might be stuck with me forever.”

“Not forever.” Of this, Jon was certain. He’d checked. “At worst, until the end of my life. And then we’d both die for real.” Jon reached out to grab Gerry’s hand. “But until then, you’d be _alive_ again.”

Hope and fear warred across Gerry’s face. “Jon… are you _sure?”_

“Yes,” Jon answered. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

“And you’re sure it will work?”

“It’s risky, but I think— _Yes_.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Terrified.” Jon laughed, giddy and edging on hysterical. “Are you in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Gerry deserves friends, and Jon deserves _better_ friends.


	2. Chapter 2

Seven months and one week after he first arrived, the coma patient in room C-402 of Amherst Care Private Hospital started breathing. The pattern was irregular—four long breaths, seven short ones, another two long ones, and so on, until it stopped entirely. Then the patient’s heart began to beat, at first alarmingly quickly, then stopping and starting again at a more subdued pace.

Under normal circumstances, drastic changes in a patient’s pulse would have triggered sensors which would have activated alarms and summoned doctors. In this case, the sensors had all been deactivated because the patient had never had a pulse. And so, when Jonathon Sims finally woke up from his coma, he was alone.

Or so it would have seemed to most observers.

Gradually, his heart found its rhythm. His breathing restarted with cautiously shallow breaths that grew more confident. His eyeballs began twitching behind his eyelids. The fingers of his right hand began spasm, then his hand, then his arm. Then his left arm, his left leg and his right leg, in sequence. Then his left arm and his right leg, uncoordinated, both jerked at the same time. Twenty minutes later, he curled the fingers of both hands at the same time while bending both knees.

Finally, his eyes opened to see the smoothly painted white ceiling.

“Right then,” Jon said seemingly to himself, “now that’s sorted.”

* * *

Despite his best attempts at convincing the hospital staff of his good health, the baffled doctors insisted on calling the Magnus Institute to have someone pick him up, so Jon sat impatiently in his hospital room dressed in hospital scrubs.

Jon drank the water the nurses had nervously brought, but picked at the tapioca pudding. He—they—were _starving,_ but he was fairly certain food wasn’t going to help.

_It’s not,_ Gerry agreed, _but eat the orange slices anyways. I’ve missed fruit._

Jon obediently complied and tried not to outwardly smile. Gerry was still gleeful at being _alive,_ and Jon wanted him to feel that way for as long as possible. _I’ll buy you a fruit salad when we get out of here,_ he thought.

_And chocolate. And cigarettes,_ Gerry added cheerfully.

There was no television in the room, so Jon was just thinking about asking for a newspaper when he heard a very familiar click. Sighing, he thought, _there’s a tape recorder underneath the bed, isn’t there?_

_Yup,_ Gerry replied, _pretty sure it’s for you._

When Basira opened the door less than a minute later, she found Jon sitting with his back straight already staring at her, hands folded neatly in his lap. If the way she subtly recoiled was any indication, that wasn’t what she was expecting from a man just out of a coma.

_Shit. Probably should have tried to look more helpless,_ Gerry thought.

That would have been a good idea, but… _I don’t want to lie to her,_ Jon thought sadly. Gerry gave a brush of support, the mental equivalent of a hand on the shoulder.

Drawing a deep breath, Jon quietly said, “Hello Basira, it’s good to see you.”

“Jon... Are you...?” Basira trailed off, at a loss for words, or maybe just wary.

“Myself? I think so. Though less human, obviously.” Jon grimaced a ran a hand through his hair. He needed a shower. “But I’m not a danger to you.”

“Right...” Basira didn't seem convinced.

“Can you tell me about the others?” he asked quickly.

She just looked at him, then said curtly, “Tim and Daisy are dead. They didn't make it out of the Unknowing.”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut and took a low breath. “I'm sorry. You're sure?” In his head, Gerry was swearing softly.

“...They found Tim's body, after. They couldn't find anything of Daisy, but it's been months.”

“I see. I’m—I’m sorry.”

“So you said,” Basira said flatly.

“Where’s Martin?” Jon asked, changing the subject abruptly. “I thought he’d be here.”

“I couldn’t find him.” Interrupting Jon’s follow-up, she continued, “He’s still at the Institute, but he keeps to himself these days.”

“What? Why? Is it Elias?” Jon demanded, growing concerned.

“No—Elias is in jail, Martin’s plan worked…”

“So?”

Basira sighed. “Elias appointed Peter Lukas as interim director of the Institute.”

“Lukas, as in—oh, fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s influencing Martin,” Jon stated, rather than asked.

_That could be a problem_ , he thought grimly to Gerry.

_Fucking Lukases,_ Gerry agreed. _You need to get back to the Archives._

Jon stood up suddenly, ignoring Basira’s startled half-step backwards. “I assume you drove? Tell me the rest in the car.”

* * *

The rest turned out to be Melanie. On the drive to the Institute, Basira told Jon that the Flesh attacked the Archives two months into his coma. Lacking in any subtlety, the attack by Jared Hopworth and his cronies came through the front door and managed to kill two researchers and a librarian on their way out to lunch before the rest of the staff clued in and started running and hiding. Someone called the police from their cellphone, but demonstrating their usual reluctance to deal with the Magnus Institute, it was a while before they arrived.

But then Melanie grabbed a knife and started killing them. She just hacked and slashed her way through the Flesh monsters until they either fled or—died.

Gerry frowned when he heard that. _Monsters empowered by the Flesh shouldn’t be so easy to kill,_ he thought uneasily _. A regular human with a kitchen knife should have had a harder time of it._

But according to Basira, excluding the ones that ran, the only monster that Melanie _hadn’t_ been able to kill was Jared Hopworth himself, though it was not for lack of trying. Melanie just _kept stabbing_ , but Jared kept regenerating, until finally, Helen Richardson stepped in and trapped Jared inside her corridors.

_Which was right generous of her,_ Gerry noted suspiciously.

_Yes, but she did help me when I was kidnapped by the Circus,_ Jon pointed out with a pang of guilt he always felt when he thought about Helen. 

_‘Helen’ was closer to the surface, then,_ Gerry countered. _Now she’s something else._

Regardless, Helen wasn’t the problem. Or at least, not the only one. The problem was that after the attack, Melanie became more and more erratic. She took to tapping her fingers absently and staring off into the distance, listening to some tune only audible to her. Some days she’d limp obviously, dragging her leg behind her, but when asked about it, she’d just look confused. Worse, her temper became unmanageable. Casual conversations would end with Melanie screaming obscenities and slamming doors. Eventually, even Basira started avoiding her after she found her with a dead rat, methodically separating the gristle from the flesh.

Melanie wouldn’t leave the Archives, not even to go home and sleep—maybe especially not then—so Basira started barricading Melanie’s door at night. This proved to be a wise precaution because one night, Melanie broke out. The noise from the toppled furniture gave Basira the head start she needed to run and knock on Helen’s door.

Now, both Jared _and_ Melanie were trapped in the Distortion’s hallways.

* * *

Later, after he spent the day sorting out the practicalities—purchasing clothes, fruit and cigarettes, re-organizing his office, trying and failing to find Martin, reading a couple of statements for a pick-me-up—Jon stood on the roof of the Institute smoking a cigarette. This wasn’t something he had done before and it made Basira look at him askance, but a new appreciation for the outdoors was the least of his changes, and he wasn’t about to deny Gerry the sharp evening breeze.

Or the view. The sun was starting to set over London, streaking the late March sky orange behind the clouds.

_I've missed this_ , Gerry quietly confessed. _Nothing felt the same when I was dead._

_Do you want to take over?_ Jon asked.

_You don’t mind?_ Gerry countered.

He did, a bit. More than a bit, actually. Jon couldn’t help thinking of his poor childhood bully, walking himself helplessly into some spider’s jaw. …But he knew what he was offering, when he volunteered, and Gerry hadn’t complained once today about being puppeteered by Jon.

Jon took a final drag of the cigarette to settle himself before stubbing it out. _We’ve talked about this. Besides, it would be a shame to waste all that time we spent practicing._

_…Alright then,_ Gerry thought.

And then Jon felt him reach around him like a straight-jacket, binding together his arms and legs and _neck,_ so that not even his head could move, except it wasn’t his arms and legs and neck, they were fine, but this was _worse_ and _—_ Jon brutally derailed that train of thought.

_It’s just me, Jon, not a murderous Web avatar,_ soothed Gerry. _We’ll work more on co-piloting,_ he promised _._

Through experimenting, they had discovered that control of Jon’s body had to be intentionally, _forcibly_ taken. It was impossible to simply cede control—millions of years of evolved instincts balked at something that felt so close to suicide. Sharing _was_ possible, but required a complicated, hard-won stand-off, and they weren’t coordinated enough yet to manage walking.

For now, Jon kept reminding himself that he _trusted_ Gerry, and that this would just be for a little while. He was just taking a break, a rest even, and did _not_ panic when he felt the pace of his heartbeat change and his posture settle into something a bit looser.

_You okay?_ Gerry asked.

_Y-Yes, I, I’m fine. It’s just the switchover that’s the worst,_ Jon thought, and let out a mental huff. _How do you feel?_

_Good,_ Gerry replied. _Great, even. Though you’re really tall. I’m going to be wobbling into everything like one of those inflatable tube things in front of car dealerships._

_Ah, well. Sorry I’m not…_ Jon suddenly felt stupidly self-conscious. He’d never been the most physically attractive person, “lanky” if one was being generous and “scrawny” if they weren’t. The coma hadn’t helped either, leaving his ribs and hip bones jutting starkly. And he’d collected all these scars…

_Jon, it’s a body, and it’s alive. It’s the best thing in the world,_ Gerry thought, interrupting his spiraling self-esteem.

_That—that’s very kind of you to say—_

_And_ , Gerry interrupted again, _it’s_ your _body, and you volunteered it to save me from un-death. That makes it the best,_ he finished decisively.

_…Thank you._

_You’re welcome. Now help me get your walk right._ Gerry walked Jon’s body back and forth along the edge of the roof a few times, making adjustments while Jon critiqued. They hadn’t really discussed it, but it hadn’t occurred to Jon _not_ to keep Gerry a secret. Mistrust at the Institute was already at a high, but his setup with Gerry was strange and intimate and, frankly, nobody else’s business. Besides, what the others didn’t know would have a harder time making it back to Elias.

Speaking of which, _we need to do something about Elias,_ Jon thought, mulling over the problem. _There’s no way he’s not plotting something from jail. You said the Eye is due for its ritual?_

Gerry sighed and stopped pacing to pull out another cigarette. _The Watcher’s Crown. Gertrude knew how to deal with it, but if she left notes, they’ve probably been destroyed by Elias._

_Yes… Do you think he would have told anything to Peter Lukas? The family sponsors the Institute, and Elias did make him interim head._

But Gerry was already shaking Jon’s head. _They might cooperate, but when it comes to rituals, avatars keep to their own Entities. But we need to deal with him anyways. He’s infringing on your place of power._

Jon gave the impression of blinking. _I’m sorry, my what?_

_The Archives, Jon._ Gerry’s tone held the faint sense of _duh._ _You’re the Archivist. They belong to you more than anyone, maybe even Elias. Gertrude was stronger here than anywhere else._

The moment Gerry mentioned it, Jon Knew it was true. He Looked instinctively and this time, it didn’t hurt. The Archives opened up to him, welcomed him, a deep well of knowledge of fear. It wasn’t physical, per se, but the statements tied intangible fears to tangible objects that existed in _this_ reality, each acting as a tiny ritual of the Beholding. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t recorded or even read all of them yet, the Archives were learning the shape of him, as they had for each of the Archivists that had served before him.

But creeping in on the edges of that reshaping were wisps and tendrils of the Lonely, changing the fit.

_Yes, I see,_ Jon thought coldly. And then he mentally shook himself, startled at his own possessiveness.

_Jon?_ Gerry asked warily.

_Uh, y-yes, I see,_ he repeated stuttering. _The Archives don’t like him here, and_ I _don’t like his hold on Martin. But what do you suggest? Basira said he’s already disappeared two researchers._

Gerry surprised him by snorting. _He’s small fry. Gertrude had_ plans _for him, he was just too far down her shit list to matter. Did I ever tell you about his ritual attempt? It was some overly complicated housing scheme. Gertrude stopped it with an_ email _she probably wrote while in her slippers sipping_ tea.

_Really?_ Jon thought incredulously. _That’s, um—_

_Pathetic? Lame?_ Gerry tossed out.

_A bit reassuring, actually._

_Guess so._ The sun had almost disappeared, but Gerry didn’t seem to be in any rush to get back inside. He just drew Jon’s jacket more tightly around his chest to ward off the chill. _Not to get cocky, but I think we’re in good shape. Do you_ feel _lonely?_

_Hmm… No, I guess not._ It was hard to feel alone after he’d welcomed someone to live inside his head.

_We’ll think of something for Peter Lukas,_ Gerry affirmed. _And we need to start digging into Elias._

_We have to find you a body as well,_ Jon added. _…And I know it’s unlikely, but I want to see if we can do anything for Melanie._

_Better deal with her first, then. The Distortion’s already had her a month,_ Gerry thought grimly.

_…Right,_ agreed Jon, painfully aware that that was more than enough time to lose one’s mind. Then he paused, reconsidering. _No actually, one other thing first. It shouldn’t take long…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the setup taken care of. Plot away!

**Author's Note:**

> Because Gerry deserves friends, and Jon deserves _better_ friends.


End file.
